


The Jump

by anglophileadventures



Series: Newt garbage can for my Newt trash [1]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Gen, I don't know if it counts as graphic but, Injury, Suicide Trigger, Violence, attempted suicide, because I am Newt trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglophileadventures/pseuds/anglophileadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is exactly what you think it is. I'm sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jump

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to scorchflared.tumblr.com for beta-ing or whatever it's called :)

Newt felt a heavy sinking feeling as he ran his section of the maze, every turn confirming his and the other Runners’ suspicion: the patterns were repeating. Newt knew he had run this exact pattern about a month before, and the month before that, and the month before that. It had been the same with the pattern yesterday. The patterns changed every day, but after about a month it started the cycle over. The maze was repeating itself exactly, over and over again, which Newt knew in his bones meant something he had avoided thinking, something he had hoped against hope wasn’t true: there was no exit. There never would be an exit. They were trapped here for the rest of their lives, which probably wouldn’t even be very long.  
  
He didn’t even wait until the end of the day to return to the Glade. Why bother? He had already mapped this section of the maze, with this exact configuration of patterns, at least four or five times before. Newt had a very good memory, and he remembered almost exactly all the various patterns he had mapped during his months as a Runner.  
  
When the first group of boys had arrived in the Glade without their memories, confused and scared, they had almost immediately realised they were in the centre of a maze. They had thought that if it was a maze, it made sense that there must be an exit somewhere. There had been a sense of purpose: survive, find the exit. Even after they had discovered the maze changed every night, they hadn’t given up hope, only changed their strategy: they had started keeping track of the patterns, thinking that perhaps an exit only appeared on certain days.  
  
Newt had been a runner almost from the beginning, his tall, thin frame perfect for continuous, long-distance running. He had wanted to do everything he could to help find the exit, even though he hated being in the maze, not knowing who he was or where he had come from, knowing they were being watched from the lizard-like beetle blades. Back when he had thought they had a chance of escape, it had given him hope, had kept the worst of the misery at bay. But now he knew there was no point, and he allowed all the anguish of the last year to wash over him, wearing him down. He went to the Map Room and sat, head in hands, waiting for the other Runners to return.  
  
When Minho, Alby, and the other Runners returned, they met him in the Map Room and confirmed what he already knew in his heart: like his section, all the sections of the maze were repeating, exactly the same, each month. There could be no more denying it. They had suspected as much for a while, but now it was certain. The Runners glanced forlornly at each other, wondering what to do.  
  
“I don’t think we should tell the other Gladers about this,” Minho finally spoke up. “Just because an exit hasn’t appeared yet, doesn’t mean there will never be one, and if all the boys give up hope we could have anarchy on our hands. I think we should keep going out every day and mapping the maze, just in case.”  
  
“We’ll have to tell Nick, at least,” Alby said wearily.  
  
“Of course we’ll tell Nick, and probably the other Keepers, but no one else. And I’m pretty sure Nick will agree with me,” Minho replied.  
  
Newt couldn’t keep it in. “What’s the bloody point?!” He burst out. “We’re never getting out of here! We’re doomed anyway, what does it matter if we die next week or next month or a year from now?”  
  
Minho looked at him, surprised. “Slim it with that kind of talk, Newt.” He said fiercely. “That’s exactly the kind of thinking we don’t want. We’re not defeated unless we give up. There could still be a way out, but if we stop looking for it then we really are doomed. I didn’t think you would be the one going all woe-is-me on us.”  
  
Newt felt he had a lot more to say, but he clamped his mouth shut. Minho just didn’t get it. There was no exit. There was no hope. They were all stuck in this wretched maze that he had begun to hate with every fibre of his being, put here by sadistic maniacs who probably just wanted to watch them and see what they would do, observe their reactions, who knew or cared why; but Newt was willing to bet the most interesting results would come from watching people try to solve an unsolvable puzzle, and so that was what had been done to them. But he didn’t know what else to do, so over the next few days he kept up the act of running in the maze, mapping sequences he knew he had already mapped, terrified every moment of running into a Griever. It began to wear on him more than ever, constantly being on high-alert all day in the maze, fear spiking in his heart as he rounded every corner.  
  
He was used to the constant presence of low-level sadness, interrupted here and there with brief flashes where, if he wasn’t exactly happy, he at least remembered what it felt like to be happy. This was different. The only thing he felt now was overpowering despair; his head constantly pounded and his heart felt as though it were locked in a vise which was slowly closing and crushing it, one centimetre at a time. He found it hard to focus on anything anymore, and in the evening when he wasn’t running, he didn’t have the energy or the willpower to do anything except lay there as the pain washed over him. He hardly even ate anymore; his insides felt twisted in knots and he thought he might not be able to keep down much food anyway. Everything seemed pointless, especially running his section of the maze, but he had to keep going out every day, memorising the same patterns he had already learned the month before, and the month before that, or the non-runner boys would get suspicious.  
  
Every day he tried to summon at least enough energy to pretend that things were normal. There was no reason for everyone to lose all hope as he had; but Newt found himself wondering if it wouldn’t be better to come clean, stop pretending, and let each boy decide for himself.  
  
Normally running helped relieve some of his stress, but now he knew he wasn’t getting anywhere, couldn’t escape. He was just running in metaphorical circles and it was driving him mad. He was trapped, and he knew it. Like a rat. The thought burned within him, and once again he cursed the Creators, hoping there was some hell reserved for them, ten times worse than the one in which they had deposited him.

* * *

Newt began to contemplate suicide. At first it wasn’t serious; it was like a strange coping mechanism. Somehow it seemed to help the emotional pain to imagine it as physical pain, so he imagined taking one of Frypan’s kitchen knives and carving out his wretched heart. He pictured sinking the knife into his flesh, prying apart his own ribcage, ripping out his still-beating heart with his bare hands, blood spurting and gushing. Or he could take a tiny razor and open his wrist. He imagined finding the artery, taking a few fearful stutter-cuts, and then finally slicing it open in one smooth motion. It would hurt, but at least he would bleed out relatively quickly. Or sometimes, when he was out running, he imagined jumping from the walls of the maze. He wouldn’t be able to climb all the way up—the ivy didn’t go that high—but surely he could climb high enough that the fall would kill him.  
  
At first he didn’t think he would ever actually be able to kill himself; it was just a strange way to stay calm. But then it got worse. It was as though he had let a demon inside a little by entertaining the thoughts, and once it was inside he lost control. He wondered what it would feel like to actually die.  
  
He couldn’t remember if he had believed in an afterlife before he came to the maze, and now he didn’t know what to believe. All he knew was the maze. In a way he didn’t even care if there was no afterlife and he simply ceased to exist, as long as the pain ended. The turmoil clouded his brain; he couldn’t see past the misery to anything else.  
  
His coping mechanism ceased to be innocent, and he began thinking about what would be the best way to kill himself. There were probably some poisonous substances in the med-jack tent that he could take. But how would he know how much to take? And what if the others found him and stopped him or somehow treated him? Then there was always the artery-slicing option. Newt remembered enough basic anatomy to know he could choose from several major arteries in his arms or legs. But he didn’t think he would actually be able to work up the courage to cut himself, for all his graphic and violent imaginings. And again, the others might find him and stop him before he managed it; it was difficult to find any amount of privacy in the Glade.  
  
Then it hit him—the one place he could be alone was in the maze. And he might not be able to cut himself, but he was certain he could climb up and fall back down. Falling was easy; he already felt like he was falling into a deep abyss every day anyway. Doing it in the maze had the added benefit of being certain that no one could save him; it was against the rules to go searching for anyone who didn’t turn up at the end of the day, because it was only a sure-fire way to get more people lost in the maze. Alby, Minho, and the others would think he had somehow gotten lost and failed to make it back before sunset. They might be a bit upset at first, sure, but they would get over it. He wasn’t that important; and anyway, they were all going to die in this awful maze. There was no way out, so all they could do was delay the inevitable, maybe even for another year or so. But sooner or later, the Grievers would get them all. There was no point in carrying on as if they still had some hope of getting back to the real world and their memories.  
  
For the millionth time, Newt wondered about his family. He must have had a family at some point. Were they still alive? Did they know what had become of him? Newt felt like he’d been punched in the gut as he realised he would never remember his family, his old life. Perhaps it was for the best; not knowing made it easier to step into the void.  
  
Once he had made his decision, he was strangely calm. Soon it would all be over, and the torment would stop. He would do it soon, he decided. Tomorrow.  
  
The day dawned, looking just as sunny as every other shuck day he had been here, but today was different. Today he would finally escape the maze, escape the agony that had been his life for the past year and was the only life he could remember. He smiled grimly, wondering what the Creators would think of his approach to escaping.  
  
Newt felt almost completely numb inside, but he surprised himself by feeling just a tiny bit nervous. He wondered if it would hurt a lot when he landed, then decided that the pain couldn’t be worse than what he was living every day in the maze. Besides, he might get lucky. He might be killed on impact.  
  
As the Runners lined up to go, Newt suddenly wished he could say goodbye to Alby and Minho. They had been through a lot together, and they had become close friends. He felt the tiniest twinge of guilt about abandoning them, but he consoled himself that they had lost several boys to the maze before, and managed to move on. Losing friends you cared about was part of living in the maze; losing Newt would be no different. They would move on. They might even be better off without him; he would be one less person they would have to worry about.  
  
But if this was to be their last memory of Newt, he wanted it to be a good one. Newt spotted Minho and Alby, and jogged up to them, thinking about what his last words to his friends should be.  
  
“Hey, Minho, Alby,” he called, forcing a smile. They turned to look at him. “Sorry about everything I said in the Map Room the other day. I just went out of my buggin’ head there for a minute.”  
  
Most people probably would have smiled reassuringly to show the apology had been accepted, but not Minho. “Well, as long as you’re back to normal now,” he said, frowning slightly and squinting at Newt as if to make sure he really was back to normal. Alby was more forgiving, putting a hand on Newt’s shoulder.  
  
“Look, I know it’s kind of depressing, finding out we already know all the configurations of the maze, but we can’t give up,” said Alby. “There’s always the chance that something new will show up any day, so we have to be there to find it if it does.”  
  
Finally Minho cracked a grin. “It can be a klunk job sometimes, but someone’s gotta do it, and you’re one of the best, even if you are a shuck-faced loser occasionally.”  
  
Alby’s words and the rare show of affection from Minho affected Newt deeply, and he found himself holding back tears. He refused to cry in front of his friends; apart from not wanting them to know anything was out of the ordinary, he didn’t want their last memory of him to be a blubbering mess. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he prepared to speak his final farewell to his friends.  
  
“Look… if anything… happens, to me, or to any of us, I want the other two to not be too… sad about it. Because the maze is bloody dangerous, we all know that, it’s an occupational hazard, but I guess…” his speech was faltering, unsure, his brain unable to decide what to say and get the words out. He took a deep breath and tried again. “What I mean is… if I ever don’t make it back, today, or any day, I wanted to tell you… thanks for being my friends.” He smiled softly, hoping they would know what he meant without realising what he was planning.  
  
Alby and Minho glanced at each other, confused, then looked back to Newt, but he was already off, running into the maze. He turned back and waved goodbye to them. For the last time ever, he thought, at least in this life.  
  
Newt ran deeper and deeper into the maze, heading for his section. He thought about when would be the best time to do it. Ultimately it didn’t matter; what were a few hours, one way or the other, when sooner or later he would be free from the pain, from the maze? Really he should do it immediately, before he had too much time to think about what he was doing and become more nervous; but one thought held him back: the thought that he should check his section of the maze, one last time, just in case. He knew there would be no change to the pattern repetitions, but somehow he felt he owed it to Alby and Minho to check.  
  
Newt arrived in his section of the maze and began the familiar process, memorising the turns and pathway splits. He hadn’t really had any hope, and it was just as he’d thought: the pattern was the same as the month before. Nothing was new. With each turn and dead-end that he recognised, it was as if another signal were being sent to him that he was making the right decision. There would never be an exit; the maze was hopeless. His way was the only way out.  
  
He ran a little faster than usual, and took a little less care, so he was finished running his section a little before midday. He had packed a lunch so he didn’t seem suspicious, but he didn’t feel like eating it, so he dropped his pack at an intersection. He wouldn’t need it anymore. Newt chose a direction at random and continued down the path a ways, scanning for a patch of ivy that looked easy to climb. He quickly found one and stopped in front of it. This was it. Soon it would all be over, and he would be free of the maze, free of the fear. Newt now felt completely numb inside, focused single-mindedly on his task. He began to climb.  
  
As he climbed higher and higher, he could feel his body reacting physiologically to the dangerous height, but he felt it in a detached way, as if it were happening to someone else, and he didn’t really care. Some subconscious part of his brain didn’t realise that he wanted to fall, that that was his whole purpose in climbing up here. With a grim determination, he climbed ever higher, and his arms grew tired and began to shake with exertion. His breath started coming in rattling gasps, and his throat was so dry and closed-off he thought he might choke.  
  
Finally he reached about halfway up the wall, where the ivy ended, and he looked down at the dizzying height. Instead of experiencing any vertigo or fear, he felt a curious sense of relief and peace, even a rush of euphoria. He almost felt as though he could soar right off the wall and fly away. Knowing he was about to end the pain, he was the happiest he had been in weeks, months, or maybe ever since he had come to the maze. Taking one last breath, he pushed off from the wall and let go.

* * *

His body slammed into the ground with a sickening crunch; first his feet, followed quickly by his torso and then his head, which bounced feebly on the paved maze floor. He was not lucky. The fall didn’t kill him; he wasn’t even unconscious. Still, he was busted up pretty badly, and the pain exploded into his awareness a second later. Newt screamed involuntarily as spasms knifed through him; his vision narrowed to a small tunnel as he was overwhelmed by nearly every pain receptor in his body screaming at him at once.  
  
He had taken most of the force on his right leg, which was broken in at least two places, and his ankle was completely shattered. Every breath was agony, indicating several broken ribs. The world seemed to spin around him, and there was a harsh ringing in his ears. He tried to turn over, but the smallest movement sent fresh waves of torment through his tortured body, and he sobbed again and gave up, lying still and hoping for oblivion to take him.  
  
But his body refused to die, instead clinging stubbornly to life and the overwhelming pain that Newt’s world had become, as if punishing him for attempting to take his own life. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, praying for death with every gasping inhale and being denied it with every shuddering exhale, but he knew in a few more hours the maze would close, and the Grievers would come for him. That was the last way he would have chosen to die; the Grievers scared the ever-living klunk out of him, but Newt bitterly supposed that this was what he got for the shuck mess he had made of his own death. Hot tears coursed down his face and he thought about how much he hated himself right now—he couldn’t even kill himself properly.  
  
Eventually he did slip into unconsciousness, and as everything went black he thought that maybe he would finally be released from his miserable life.

* * *

Hours later, back at the Glade, it was nearing the time for the doors to close, and Alby and Minho knew something had gone horribly wrong. Newt still wasn’t back.  
  
“He’s almost always one of the first back,” Minho was saying tersely. “He’s so fast, and you know he’s terrified of not making it back before the doors close.”  
  
“He still has about an hour left,” Alby countered. “It could be nothing. Maybe he’s on his way back right now. Maybe he found something.”  
  
“I don’t like it,” Minho insisted. “I’m worried something happened to the shank. And remember how weird he was this morning? It’s almost like he knew something was going to happen.” As soon as Minho said it, the pieces clicked together in Alby’s brain.  
  
“Or like he was planning something,” he uttered, staring at Minho as a sudden fear and certainty gripped him.  
  
“You think he…” Minho gasped and stared back at Alby. He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. Alby looked at his watch, quickly calculating.  
  
“I’m going after him,” he said with fierce determination, daring Minho to argue. To his surprise, Minho didn’t even hesitate.  
  
“I’ll come with you,” he offered.  
  
“No,” Alby considered quickly, “it’s best if we don’t risk anyone else. Nick’ll be mad enough that I broke the rules.” Minho looked as if he wanted to argue, but he knew time was of the essence. He would just have to hope that whatever shape Newt was in, Alby could get him back before the doors closed. Alby saw Minho’s concern and looked directly into his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring him back,” he promised, then took off running for the maze.  
  
Alby quickly made his way to Newt’s section, almost at a full sprint, and started exploring it hastily, his panic building as he saw no sign of his friend. Suddenly he rounded a corner and spotted the abandoned pack and stopped short, scanning the various pathways for Newt, calling Newt’s name at the top of his voice desperately. Finally, down one of the pathways, he caught sight of Newt’s broken body.

* * *

The last thing Newt remembered was a blackness advancing from the corners of his vision, and the next thing he knew, rough hands were shaking him awake. He moaned as the pain crashed into him anew and he was ripped from unconsciousness. Dimly he was aware of someone shouting at him, and then he realised it was Alby.  
  
“Did you climb up the wall and jump off?!” Alby was screaming in fury. “You stupid shuck-face slinthead, if you die I swear I’m gonna rip your shuck head off!” Newt couldn’t understand why Alby was so angry. “Did you think we were just gonna sit around and let you off yourself?” Alby continued, and then, to Newt’s horror, Alby seized Newt by the shirt and began dragging him. Newt howled as stars exploded behind his eyes and his vision went black. Alby stopped tugging at him, and slowly the blackness receded, but the pain battered him all over again. He felt as though someone were drilling a hole into his skull, and his broken leg throbbed.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Alby said in a slightly calmer voice, “but I’m going to have to drag you back to the Glade, and it’s probably going to hurt something awful.”  
  
“NO!” Newt screamed, nausea rolling over him as the pain threatened to become too much. “I WANT TO DIE. JUST LET ME DIE!” He moaned and feebly tried to roll out of Alby’s grasp.  
  
“No can do, shank,” Alby answered. “I’m gonna take you back to the Glade, and we’re gonna patch you up.”  
  
Newt sobbed in frustration. Why couldn’t Alby just leave him alone to die? “Please,” he whispered, pleading. “Please, I can’t go back. I can’t take one more bloody day in this buggin’ maze. I can’t.” His voice cracked on the last word. Alby ignored him, grabbing his shirt and beginning to drag him again. Newt fought to speak again over the agony, his tears falling thickly now. “Please!” he cried again, losing all control and weeping as hard as he’d ever done in his life. “Please, I just want to die. Why won’t you let me die?” He could barely get the words out between choking sobs.  
  
Some of Alby’s anger returned as he answered. “Because you still have friends who need you.” Without another word Alby dragged Newt slowly, agonisingly, back through the maze toward the Glade, with Newt crying and pleading the whole way. Every step was torture for Newt, sending jolts of anguish through his body. Finally they were within sight of the doors, and Minho, who had been watching for them anxiously the whole time, ran to meet them and help carry Newt into the safety of the Glade. Not thirty seconds after they had crossed the threshold, the doors began to close, and Alby knew they had made a lucky escape.  
  
But Newt wasn’t out of danger yet. He had lost consciousness yet again, and his injuries were terrible. Alby knew Newt might still get his wish.  
  
As the other boys crowded around them in confusion, Alby yelled out, “It was a Griever, almost got him! He barely got away.” He knew the Gladers would need some explanation as to how Newt had gotten so horribly injured, but he didn’t want everyone treating Newt like a head case or talking about him behind his back. Newt was quickly taken to the Med-Jack tent and his many injuries treated as much as possible. After the med-jacks had patched him up as well as they could, he was left in a room to recover.

* * *

Newt slowly came to, finding himself in a comfortable bed, with Alby sitting near him. The pain was still terrible, but it had dulled to an ache and was no longer overwhelming.  
  
As soon as he saw Alby, Newt’s eyes filled with tears. He was too ashamed to even look at his friend, instead staring down at his sheets. Newt tried to think of something to say, but Alby spoke first.  
  
“Are you feeling better?” This simple question caused Newt to feel even more shame, and he could only nod, still refusing to make eye contact. Alby paused, perhaps waiting for Newt to say something, then continued. “I’m sorry for being so angry when I found you. I just couldn’t understand why you would do something like that to yourself.” As Alby talked, Newt shifted his gaze to the ceiling, tilting his head back and trying to keep his tears from spilling over. “Didn’t you think about us at all? How Minho and I would feel about you dying?”  
  
Finally Newt was able to speak. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, “but that only makes me feel worse. I already feel like klunk.”  
  
“I know,” Alby replied. “I’ve spent the last few days thinking about what must have been going through your head—you’ve been out three days, by the way—and I realised it’s not about us. It’s about you. It’s about you feeling so sad, so hopeless, that the only way out that you could see was to—to jump.” Alby spoke gruffly, as though he too were holding back tears. “But here’s the thing, Newt—I need you. I need you here with me. Even if we are stuck in this shuck maze for the rest of our lives. But I don’t think you should give up hope for an escape. There’s always hope, no matter how bad it seems.” As Alby was talking, Newt felt first one, then another tear escape and slide down his cheek. He still didn’t really believe in the possibility of escape, but Alby had said he needed him. He had thought he wasn’t important, that he had no purpose anymore, but if what Alby said was true then maybe he could find a purpose again in the Glade.  
  
“So, here’s the deal: I’ve told everyone you were injured running away from a Griever. You can choose to stick to that story or not. And obviously you can’t be a Runner anymore; it’ll take a long time for you to heal, and even then the med-jacks don’t think your leg will ever be the same.” Newt wasn’t surprised that they had kicked him out of the Runners; he didn’t think he would miss it. He hated the maze now even more than he had before. “But besides that, Minho and I don’t think you should go into the maze anymore. It’s too much emotional stress for you. I’m sorry we didn’t notice the toll it was taking on you before. We’re your friends, we should have noticed that something wasn’t right, that you weren’t okay. But I’m also sorry that you didn’t think you could talk to us about it.” Alby reached out, grasping Newt’s arm. “I will always be here for you if you need to talk about anything. Minho too. He would be here now, but he’s still out running the maze. We’re your friends. We’re here for you.” Newt didn’t really feel any better; he still felt overwhelmingly sad and hopeless. But now, for the first time, he felt the slim possibility of recovery. Maybe he had been wrong to feel so alone. He wasn’t alone as long as he had Alby and Minho. Maybe, with their help, he could make it. Maybe. That maybe was thin and scrawny, but it felt wonderful after so long a feeling of futility.  
  
“There’s one more thing,” Alby added. “I need you to promise me, promise me that you’ll never try to kill yourself again.”  
  
Newt blinked, looking back down at his sheets. “I don’t know if I can promise that,” he whispered raggedly.  
  
“That’s not going to work,” Alby insisted. “I’m not taking no for an answer. I need your word, that you will never try to kill yourself again. No matter what happens, no matter how bad life seems. Suicide is not the answer.” Alby reached toward Newt again, this time taking his hand and grasping it tightly in both his own. “Do this for me. Promise me.”  
  
Newt looked up, blinking rapidly, trying and failing once again to hold back his tears. “Okay, fine,” he said finally, wiping his face roughly with his free hand. “I promise.”  
  
“No matter what,” continued Alby relentlessly. “I need to hear you say it. No matter what happens.”  
  
Newt groaned in frustration and discomfort. He wanted desperately to keep his way out as an option, a secret back door, but he could see Alby would not give in. His tears falling in earnest now, he finally whispered, “I promise. No matter what.”  
  
Alby sat back, appearing relieved. “And if you ever feel like you need to… hurt yourself, or… anything like that, I want you to come talk to me about it. I want to help you, Newt. Let me help you.”  
  
“What if you’re not… around?”  
  
“Please, shank,” Alby scoffed, trying to lighten the mood with a joke, “you think you’re going to outlast me? I’m here for the long haul.” Newt smiled sadly, unable to laugh just yet, and thought about the future. Perhaps they never would get out of this maze, but he could still find something worthwhile to do here in the Glade. Besides, Alby needed him; he had said so. It might be difficult, but Newt knew he would do his best to keep the promise he had made to Alby.  
  
He didn’t realise just how much that promise would be tested, before the end came.

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone who has had thoughts of suicide or has attempted suicide or has a friend who is struggling or has committed suicide. You are not alone; we are thinking of you and we love you. If you're having a hard time right now, please reach out to someone. I can be reached on tumblr as itsanglophileadventures. You may not see a way out right now, but it can get better.


End file.
